


Evil Genius

by Bryn Lantry (Bryn)



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1989-01-01
Updated: 1989-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:37:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bryn/pseuds/Bryn%20Lantry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Avon makes a sexual attack on Blake</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evil Genius

**Author's Note:**

> Printed in the zine 'Before and After' from Merry Men Press, circa 1989, with the editor's title 'Gentle Genius'  
> This got scrambled. First I was afraid to write what I meant to write, then the editor re-wrote it. And I've lost the original, so I've written the back end again along the lines intended (in a different style but I can't help that).

###  
##

Avon traced the rebel down to the nether module of the ship. Treading quietly, he heard a melancholy tune whistled in snatches. A dirge, yet the highest notes were so starkly sweet they hurt. The light was gloomy, a milky colour, tinged with blue. And there was Blake, delving in half-stripped machinery, oil wiped carelessly on his trousers, husky frame bowed over his work.

The wistfulness of the song clenched Avon's jaw. He had come to hammer on with the argument, hammer it out like a blacksmith into perfectly crafted bitterness. Only then would he leave Blake alone, when he could carry away a perfect artefact to wonder over in his cabin. This time Blake had abandoned the fight half-fought and Avon felt robbed of culmination, and yet the rebel was terrible in his sadness. Avon nearly retreated, cowed by the pain in the whistling.

No, he told himself, his blood was too hot to retreat. Anger was thick in his breast, pity thick in his throat. Such absurd relations he and Blake had. That was Blake's doing. If given the chance, he would manage things between them more sensibly. Mouth quirking in amusement at the absurdity, Avon elected to demonstrate what sense might be like. Prowling nearer, he touched the bigger man's bent spine, just before it went underground in his trousers, between rounded loins where the shirt clung. The whistling stopped short.

“Listen, Blake.” But he only caressed that knob of vertebra.

After a suspended moment Blake swung from his hidey-hole in the machinery. When drowned in emotion, Blake tended to look giant-like to Avon, as if he had by mistake a titan's heart. He said softly, “If you have any mercy whatsoever, Avon, you'll go away.”

“Can't I be merciful here?” Avon gave him an ironic gaze. Blake looked different in this strange lighting – fragile, more intimate, in the desolation of the engine room. Avon's fury fell, muted and mutated, lower than his breast, much lower. Where Blake was, his balls always hung heavier – that was another thing he had yet to forgive the other for.

And Blake knew. In the stubborn fixity of his mouth, in his tightened musculature, in the baleful heat of his eyes and the treacherous looseness of his hips, was Blake's knowledge. There Blake's will strove against the yielding of his blood. Avon thought, but he can't forget how I touched his spine. In wry petition, carrying on the argument, Avon trailed light fingers down Blake's shirt again, tangling them in the soft cloth below his ribs, and mangled the cloth in a fist.

Blake was inert, boots as solid as oak-tree roots, eyes nowhere, and he said with dreadful quietness, “Stop this.”

Then why, challenged Avon mentally, does he go where I yank him? For he was neatly shoving the bigger man into a chair. Yet bear-like, Blake went nowhere against his choice. Once he had the other seated, Avon experimented, skimming a thumb under the rim of the dark trousers, and he smiled when the other jerked. The troubled brown eyes refused to focus. Nevertheless, Avon rent a wide trough between his knees with body and elbows, and crouched there, blood rocketing. Aggressively, he kissed Blake, all molars and jaw muscle. Then rearing over the rugged, compliant figure, the rigours of the kiss pressured Blake to founder beneath, like an embroiled ship, until his trouser-fork wedged against the ferment of his belly.

Avon's hand raked curls, ash-pale saliva like wine brimming in the kiss. He jammed his weight against Blake's sternum to lever his hips higher.

Blake moaned into their latched teeth.

Swooping an arm behind his waist, Avon grinned in glee at Blake's ramshackle state. He roved downward, tearing away the shirt. With Blake's loins clenched to him, with his other clammy hand crowbarring the rebel's spine into a bow, he arched to devour a nipple. Hot cheeks, hot heavy cock caged in his trousers, that blindly fought to burrow in Blake, anywhere.

A fist cuffed his throat. Not powerfully, just enough to seize up his windpipe a moment. In reaction, Avon slithered down onto his heels, whooping, black of brain. Knowing Blake would be leaving, he didn't look up to see him go.

#

Avon sought him out, again, less than three hours later. They were in a white pipe of the ship, white ahead and white behind, and Avon, Avon's face the only vivid thing as he said to Blake without preamble, “Well, you have my apology. I think I must have forgotten the difference between what we had been at on the flight deck and what I suddenly thought I might be at in the engines. I have an ugly streak. Nothing like that, I assure you, is to occur again. I have no idea why I felt you up, and why I went further --”

“That's enough, Avon. We've been... combustible timber, and combustions, as you say, can get confused, and I didn't tell you very resolutely to desist, until I felt I had to punch you in the windpipe – which I didn't have to do. So we're quits. I say, let's dismiss the incident. Since we're approximately equally embarrassed. What do you think?”

“If you're going to shoulder half the blame.” Avon had a dogged humour now, that suited him. He had come with a feigned bravado, because he was honest and brave. “I won't prevent you.”

Which was a way to say he wore the blame. And he did feel bad, not merely embarrassed. He thought he'd been crude, animalistic - ugly, in his word, and that he'd spoilt once and forever whatever of the sexual had been on the slow boil between them. He took that latter for granted. And he faced Blake and he apologised. Blake read him like his favourite book.

Ugly. It wasn't, hadn't been and never would be a word of Blake's for him.

#

He liked that they didn't have a secret. He liked that he'd come out in the open and had nothing left to hide, and he even liked that he'd finished off his chances. That last was strange. But in result, here planetside, he sat and watched Blake fry the fish they'd caught that afternoon, and the sight of Blake, as he had found, and the simple sitting beside him, fed him, by osmosis, fed a hunger in him, and gentled him and soothed his state of mind. This was a truth that Blake had noticed and seemed to understand, and Blake let him watch him, and he didn't ask questions and there were no questions to ask. There was just that he liked to be beside Blake.

So Blake took him unawares, after they had eaten the fish, with the exaggeration of we've-caught-our-own – twice over from Blake, because he'd cooked – when Blake put him up against a tree and kissed him.

Slowly, most deliberately, with an arm above Avon's head to lean on, his other hand beneath his chin, with his eyes half-closed and half-open, with his thick tongue swabbing Avon, he thought, to the tonsils. Avon didn't quarrel.

But he was cautious. He went where Blake led him... this time.

Blake stripped them and they were in the yellow grass in the glow and the warmth of the late yellow sun, and Blake was gorgeous head to foot. He didn't know what to do with him. He waited to be told.

Up on his elbows over him in that loom he did, only Avon had never had it naked (fuck me, Blake?) Blake, obviously, had instructions. There was a pause. No. There was a hesitation.

I'll take instructions, Blake. He didn't beg him for them, although from waist down Blake was settled heavily on him like a lion when he has caught his victim and rests there satisfied before he gets stuck in.

He spoke, with the music in his voice – not in a sex voice, but almost, Avon thought, with the melancholy he kept for his whistling. “I need it to hurt. Not much. I just... need a touch of that, Avon.”

Avon didn't let the silence drag. He asked for specifics. “What, like – teeth, or – ?” He set them at Blake's skin, the area of skin that happened to be close.

“Yes. Nothing theatrical and don't make a dash for the horsewhips. You and your teeth and claws are quite sufficient. Do you mind?”

Avon knew how to answer that. He sank his teeth in.

Blake whined. As at an exquisite caress, he whined.

It's that easy?

Underneath him, Avon lurched to reach his great big shoulders, that wore the world on them, and he tried the tactic again. Blake's neck arched, he gave a helpless gasp or pant. Can I chew? He chewed; Blake's hands, either side of him, scrabbled at the grass. He shoved their cocks together. Blake's hips went wild. In a tangle, in a tangle, they thrust at one another, thrust and missed and hit and thrust and Avon bit him, every now and then, and each time for a second Blake stilled at his exquisite thing, and then he fought the cock-fight, worse.

And Avon kept his worst, in reserve, for a critical moment, and he made Blake come, explosively, like the bomb they set off yesterday, and Avon, in the shrapnel or the shockwaves, sluiced his ecstasy.

After a little time Blake said, “I'm a mad old rebel these days. I won't even try to --”

“Don't. I wouldn't follow you.”

“It's got to be bad, the explanation.”

“Loosen up, Blake. It's a common thing.”

“Why, you met my type?”

“You aren't a type.” Avon had his head on a shoulder, his nose in the grass, that tickled. “I can tell you that.”

“I talked to you about getting our wires crossed, with the arguing we do.”

“So you like my teeth. Makes a certain sense to me.”

“Doesn't bother you?”

“Blake.” He wondered, honestly he wondered, how to get across to him. “Blake, what did we do yesterday?”

“Ah – we'd have blown up... and after that...”

“Not that how you get your jollies isn't big news of the day. But you see my point.”

“Jolly for you?”

“Yes.” His head shifted on the shoulder, the shoulder where... he didn't inspect his toothmarks. But he was tempted to. “Yes. And don't the hell ask me why. It's not what you think.”

No. It had a lot to do with trust. That Blake... should trust him, to indulge these things, to tell him, first, and next to ask him, meet his needs.

Not as if Blake were afraid he'd bring this up on the flight deck or – or cease to be instructed, or think poorly of him or the trillion things that one might have to fear. That Blake should trust him.

Instead of which he said, “Are you sure about the horsewhips?”

“No.”

“Fine.” See if he was bothered. If that were a test, or a tease or a serious offer, he wouldn't be bothered. Because it was Blake. Him and Blake. And a secret.

It was hard to tell him how he was touched. Perhaps he didn't need to, but he had an urge to and he might work out a way. “Does this mean?”

“What's that, Avon?”

“Does this session, down here planetside, mean we can fuck on the ship? If we don't, you know, we're going to scorch the circuitry, and I think the safest option, for the ship and those who sail in her, is that we get down and dirty and not in front of the crew.”

“Is that your analysis?”

“Am I wrong?”

“Not in my book. And I hate to tell you, but to judge by a stray remark....”

“We were the last to know. I've noticed too.”

“We'd better do as we're expected to.”

“The trouble is, Blake, there'll be bets laid.”

“I wonder whether we'll find out who won.”

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End file.
